Room For One More?
by Yombatable
Summary: Now, he was sure he didn't know it, but Alistair was always acutely aware of the blonde guy with the tight jeans and the old camera who seemed to like snapping pictures that just happened to be in his direction every morning. ScotEng. One-Shot.


**This is supposed to be a one-shot, but who knows, if my love for these bastards keeps going like this I might just continue it. We'll just have to see where the wind takes us...**

 **The story is set in Scotland BTW, which is why Alistair notes that he's English, just in case, y'know...**

 **Enjoy ;)**

* * *

Now, he was sure he didn't know it, but Alistair was always acutely aware of the blonde guy with the tight jeans and the old camera who seemed to like snapping pictures that just happened to be in his direction every morning. As he sat in the park bench that overlooked the small pond which was more green than blue, smoking a cigarette that was struggling to stay alight in the muggy air, he once again noticed the guy, today wearing jeans of a dark green, new, Alistair suspected, they were usually black or obnoxiously emblazoned with the Union Jack.

The green suited him, he decided, taking another long drag, letting his eyes drift lazily away from him and back to the pond where a few ducks paddled around. He smiled a little to himself as the man approached, expecting him to discretely pull out his camera again, but was surprised when he instead walked up to him.

"Room for one more?"

His voice was just about the opposite of what Alistair expected, English, clean and proper, denoting a higher class than his appearance did. Speaking of which, he'd never seen the man up this close before, he's never been able to see more than his scruffy hair and skinny jeans, but now it was clear he was in his early twenties, probably a university student. To go along with his tight jeans and messy hair, he had a few piercings dotted around his face and a hint of a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt. Alistair wondered if he'd ever get to find out what it was.

Alistair nodded "Of course," and the man took the seat on the bench next to him.

"Mornin'," He greeted, making the man frown a little at the ground.

"Yes, uh-" he paused for a moment in thought, "I know you don't know me- well," The man looked up at him, a nervous half-smile on his face, "You've probably noticed me loitering."

Alistair nodded, his lips twitching into a tiny smile, "I have."

The man blushed a little. Alistair decided it was cute.

"Yes, well, I've found myself in quite the situation, y'see."

Alistair raised an eyebrow at the man as he broke eye contact to scowl at the ducks, who had, as if on cue, let out a loud quacking reminiscent of heavy laughter. Alistair chuckled along with them, "Have you?"

The man turned his attention away from the ducks to stare pointedly at his own feet, "My final portfolio for my university course is due in not too long, and well," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, making it perhaps even messier than it already was, "The pictures of you I've taken are quite possibly some of my best, and I can't present them in my portfolio without your permission, well I _can_ , but my conscience won't let me."

Alistair thought about that for a moment, his picture out in the world. He'd never really thought twice about a stranger taking his picture up until now, always more amused by the discrete angles the other tried to use. Alistair smirked a little to himself, an idea coming to him.

"You can, but only if I can see them."

The man looked a little surprised for a moment, before a restrained smile spread over his face and he stood excitedly, "Oh, of course, I've got them here."

He shuffled around in his bag for a moment, an old looking thing which had been repaired with duct-tape in several places, pulling out a folder, and sitting back down. Alistair took the opportunity to look at the rest of the man's pictures while he flicked through the pages, shots of graffiti, back-alleys, and people who looked like they'd be familiar with such took up most of the pages, well that and a surprising number of shots of a scruffy looking cat with a brown patch over its eye. After a few seconds the man seemed to find what he was looking for, stopping on a page and showing it to Alistair.

Alistair looked over it for a moment, the picture was taken in late winter, when the sky had been overcast, and the earth was wet with what had just fallen from them, the trees bare of anything but hopeful buds. Through the centre of the shot ran the walking path, and off to the very side, looking down at the ducks around his feet with a soft smile on his face, was Alistair. He remembered that day, he'd bought a sandwich, but upon finding out it was beyond disgusting he'd decided to give the ducks a little treat. His eyes flicked over to the other side of the page, a picture of him again, but this time from the back, and the trees were in full bloom, it was clearly raining himself holding an old tartan umbrella, which had been the only one he'd been able to find that morning, and smoking a cigarette, blowing a smoke ring into the rain.

The man coughed a little, and he realized he'd been staring with no real reaction for a while now, "These are pretty good," he said finally, handing the book back to the man, "I think I can let you hand them in for a grade."

The man smiled, "Thank you. I'm Arthur, by the way."

Alistair held out his hand for the recently dubbed Arthur to shake, "Alistair, any reason you're so far from home?"

Arthur took his hand and looked at him with confusion combined with what might have been panic before understanding seemed to dawn on his face, "Oh, yes, my voice, I -uh- grew up in London. The university here had a good arts program." He fiddled with the folder for a moment, "Any reason you sit on this bench and smoke every morning?"

Alistair nodded, leaning forward and gesturing to the name-plate on the back, "It was dedicated to my parents, they died in a car crash in two-thousand-two, I used to come here to grieve, now it's just a habit."

"Oh," Arthur said, biting his lip and frowning a little, reaching down for his bag in a nervous gesture and shoving the folder back inside it. He got up, "I should be going, really. I have class."

Alistair stopped him before he got too far, "Hey, are you going to be loitering tomorrow?"

Arthur looked a little shocked for a moment before a tiny smile softened his face, "Probably."

"I look forward to seeing you then."

Arthur nodded, "You too."

Alistair chuckled a little as Arthur hurried away, noticing his cigarette had miraculously managed to burn itself down to the filter, flicking away the ash and stubbing it out on the ashtray on top of the bin beside the bench. He stood, shaking his head with a smile and wandered off in the opposite direction.

* * *

The next day it was raining, Alistair still sat on the bench, holding the old tartan umbrella that had been the only one he could find that morning. He took a drag of his cigarette, looking out at the duckless pond in front of him, not that he blamed the ducks, he wasn't exactly sure why he was out there himself. At the beginning it had been for a young photographer, but the longer he waited in the rain the more it seemed as if he wasn't going to show up.

He wasn't exactly surprised, the man seemed interesting, but that didn't mean Alistair could return the favour. He suspected that he didn't live up to whatever expectations Arthur had come up with for him. That was probably it.

He took one more drag, preparing himself to get up and leave before a clear, English voice rung out from behind him, making him smile a little despite himself as he spun around.

"Room for one more?"

Alistair nodded, "Of course."


End file.
